PS: Corruption's Conclusion
by Al-IUI
Summary: Taken place five months after the end of the second Wizarding War with Briar York suffering in the conclusion of the war's stead. Briar faces the complexities of post-traumatic stress, an impending wedding, and of a never before told reflection of her past. After two years of the original publication of Brilliance is Corruptible, Briar York returns as ferociously as before.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

* * *

Briar York was, to say it in the simplest terms, a consistent complexity –the essence of befuddlement and inquiry, and she herself was the representation of self-contradiction in way which only seemed sensible to herself and no other. This was the cause of endless evaluation, which in turn, lead to little discovery.  
In the year which came after the great Second Wizarding War was full of turmoil, anguish, and a stuttering shiver of constant fear which lingered long after the fires had gone out and the dust had settled. The fight to regain the Ministry had been enduring –sorting out the lingering evil and tearing them out from their roots took time, but in that time there were growing glimpses of a better future. Hope –which had been restored the morning in which Voldemort had fallen to the shattered marble of the Hogwarts' Great Hall. Granted, the peace which settled was fragile, and as it seemed, Briar had grown fragile. She woke often in the dead of night from the smallest of sounds, whether it be the groan of the ancient house's foundation or the soft sound of feet padding about the house –a sound which still seemed foreign –and when Briar woke, she woke gasping, thrashing and grappling for her wand, her clever eyes wide with terror and fogged by the determination to struggle and survive no matter the means. Once, she had struck out –sending a blistering, mauve-tainted spell shattering above –missing George's head by a hair's inch.  
Briar glanced to her side where he lay, her fingers absently fluttering through the nest of sleep-flattened red hair. His face was burrowed amidst fluffy pillows which only partially muffled his booming snores. –He hadn't believed her when she had moaned about his snoring, as far as he was concerned the only person among the Weasley's that snored to the proximity she claimed was Ronald. Briar smiled fondly –her mouth twitching downward in a second as her fingers grazed the short, blackened stubbly hairs above his remaining ear, a result of the spell which she had thrown. She had been fortunate to have not blown off his remaining ear –even in the blind, white terror which fogged her vision, Briar's aim was impeccable.

Briar's fingers stilled, retracting from his hair as she turned her gaze to the precious stone which embezzled her finger. An ill feeling clenched her insides and her brain throbbed with the burden she felt –surging with panic, she hastily worked the ring off of her finger and dropped it onto the bedside table with a small clatter, her heart in her throat. To her left, George muttered incoherently, turning absently in his sleep towards her before resuming his obnoxious thundering.  
Briar's insides twisted further –the feeling of being sick prevailed and Briar hurried from their bed as noiselessly as an ill person may.

She had only managed to reach the sink before she retched, keeling over it and clutching the basin –her supper burning her throat with an untamed ferocity. She retched several times before nothing remained and she hobbled to an unsteady stand. Rinsing both the sink and her mouth, Briar used the heel of her palm to smear away the budding wetness in her eyes. She met her own reflection with a sour grimace –stress coupled with sleepless nights for the past five months had aged her. Her pale curls had been rumpled by the tossing and turning she endured that evening, leaving her hair lank in its drooping ponytail. Yesterday she had found a silver hair –panicked, she pulled the strand with much more ferocity than needed and subsequently incinerated it. She was twenty-one.  
Briar scrubbed at her face with her hands ignoring the oncoming furrow set between her brows. Pinching colour into her pallid cheeks, she forced herself to smile at her reflection, attempting to maintain the glimmer that all was well. –It was only after a glimmer of red in her reflection did she realise one thing –the snoring had stopped.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

George regarded her with an inscrutable expression –leant against the doorframe, it appeared he had been watching her for some time. Briar met his hazel eyes –fogged by the plain exhaustion he felt –she quickly dropped her eyes, troubled over his concern. She turned her back to him, fumbling for her toothbrush as an excuse to busy her trembling hands.  
The silence bounced, echoing against the tiled floor, and George made no move to leave his post at the doorway –she couldn't very well brush her teeth all evening. The sting of his eyes on her back grew heavy, Briar, determined, focused on the gold painted frame surrounding the mirror. The paint was wore from the exposure of the bulbs attached to the frame and had already begun to chip. She ought to re-paint it, Briar thought, furrowing her brows at the silver metal beginning to shine through-

"–Are you pregnant, Briar?" Foam dribbled from her mouth as she sputtered, gagging at the sudden rush of menthol which came with her sharp inhale. Briar keeled over the basin, her coughing complimented with a spattering of toothpaste into the sink. George met at her side in a second, patting her back uselessly as she drew gasping breaths. Wiping the foam from the corners of her lips, she drew up and turned on him.  
"What- what the hell!? What gives you that notion, you –." She cut herself short as his eyes crinkled with laughter. He was teasing her. Briar made an indignant noise, scoffing as his laughter grew at her blatant intolerance for his teasing.  
Without warning, Briar's arms curled around his waist, startling his laughter into subsiding –Briar wasn't one for open affection, preferring him to initiate most contact which she would only begrudgingly comply to. Although George wasn't one to deny her –his arms encircled her, pressing her cheek against him. Since the war's completion, he had taken to Molly's meals with more vigor than usual, leaving him softer and considerably less lanky. The conclusion of the war held the opposite effect on Briar, the thinness of her wrists was proof to the matter. A speckled hand flattened against the nape of her neck, his fingers nestling themselves among the loose strands of hair. Briar forced herself to take a calming breath, clenching shut her abnormally pale eyes.  
"Briar..?" George spoke tentatively, which was quite unlike his usual self, "You're all right?"

 _Was she?_

She turned her chin upwards, peering up into his freckled face –how many times had she attempted to count the speckles which dotted his face? The speckles which covered his arms, and spattered across his shoulders and his back? A million times perhaps, and maybe, a million times more.

"Yeah, I'm all right." As the lie burned on her lips, she burrowed her face against his chest, hiding her reddening face.

* * *

The days seemed to pass by much slower –not that Briar was beginning to make a habit of watching the clock. She had discarded the gold-plated watch which she had been given for her seventeenth birthday, and hid it away in a jewelry case which was carefully tucked beneath her bed, that, and her engagement ring.  
George hadn't asked, but he had periodically glanced at her bare finger with a curious gaze –she had mumbled something about 'Not wanting to lose it before the wedding,' and his queries had been solved. Perhaps it was nerves? She was excited for the coming August, and often found herself grinning despite herself –not that she'd admit that to anyone.

Briar strolled the hallways of her large home hopelessly –there hadn't been much work as an Auror since the war's end, only a few ragtag groups of Death Eaters since then, but nothing her subordinates couldn't handle. All there was to do was paperwork –which she had completed an hour ago. George hadn't been home as much recently, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes was booming with business, and as a co-owner, George was required to be at Number 93, Diagon Alley, for the majority of its opening and closing times.  
Briar halted at the mahogany staircase leading up to the third floor of her home, spotting a tiny cupboard beneath the stairwell hidden by an armour stand which had occupied the same spot all throughout her youth. She recalled the cupboard as being her favourite hiding spot long ago, due to the ventilation which led into her father's old office, it allowed her to listen in on her father's conversations. Briar paused for a second longer, before drawing the armour-clad stand forward just enough to allow her room to squeeze open the cupboard door just enough for her to clamber into the cupboard. The door slid shut behind her, leaving only tendrils of light which streamed through the slim openings of a vent to illuminate the cupboard. Dust had gathered over the years in which the cupboard had been shut up, in now caked the tops of age old boxes and her trunk from the years she spent travelling with her father, and was later used to store her supplies from her first year at Hogwarts.  
Briar lay her head against the trunk, ignoring the sudden gust she caused which scattered the grime, leaving the air around her thick, and unbearable. She recalled her father, much younger than her last memory of him, laying amongst the cobble of his condemned childhood home, so broken and yet so peaceful.

* * *

 _"…rather unfortunate I'm afraid, I needed to take my daughter school shopping –her first year a Hogwarts, mind you I'd rather she'd be off to a rule-bound school like Beauxbatons –although she doesn't speak French, so that was out of the question. But yes, I'll come along…"_

 _"…of course, certainly, Minister Bagnold."_

 _"Until we speak again, Ma'am."_

 _The man of question retracted his head from the fireplace –grey ashes powdering his unshaven face, clinging to the prickly hairs and giving the illusion of being aged twenty or more years. As he turned, his pleasant look fell at the sight of her standing there._

 _Resembling everything he was not, fair and delicate in appearance, similar to a daisy in the midst of spring. Her white-blonde hair was bundled into an ascot cap which he had brought home from his brief trip to Ireland, it did little to hide the disapproval on her face. Rurik considered his daughter briefly –she had certainly mastered that disapproving scowl, he wondered idly where she had adopted the behavior. Perhaps it was during their recent trip to Greece, and she'd been witness one-too-many public scoldings?_

 _"Briar," he sighed, giving his head a shake to free the debris from his stark black hair. "Minister Bagnold was just discussing with me and I-""Can't take me shopping, I know," she interrupted, her tone placid. Her face fell into indifference, "it's okay, Rurik. I'll have Poppy take me."_

 _She turned her back to him, all too aware of her father's falling face. It was a habit of hers to revert to calling him by his first name when she was displeased with him –it was something she had picked up from when a boss from the past of his scolded him –not that it was common when he was scolded._

 _"Oi, don't call me that," he scolded her back, "I'm your father, not a friend!"_

 _"…yeah," she mumbled, pulling open a set of mahogany doors, and allowing them to swing shut behind her –nearly clipping her rear in the process. Although the impact of her actions was obliterated as Rurik yanked open the doors, a scowl marring his face._

 _"Now listen, Briar! You can't speak to me like that!" he shouted, towering over her –the contrast between the pair was outrageous, fair against dark. Her placid expression altered, thin lips tilting downwards to match his scowl, "I didn't say anything!"_

 _Rurik's brows rose in obvious surprise –Briar rarely lashed out, Rurik prided himself on raising her to have a mild temperament, apparently that was not so._

 _Rurik ran a scarred hand through his hair, pulling the coarse strands from their short tress. He stared down at his seething daughter, desperately attempting to hide his knitting brows from her piercing gaze. So clearly blue, as though they pierced straight through him as though they were lightning, framed by sweeping white lashes which seemed utterly inhuman. So much like her mother._

 _"STOP IT! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!" she shouted, her face red with rage. "You stop it! Stop comparing me to her!"_

 _"What'd you mean?" Rurik shot back in utter surprise._

 _"You always get that look on your face –that look whenever you're thinking of mum –sort of sad and puppyish –like –like –." She sputtered, floundering for words. "Like those strays we saw in Indonesia! Like you were being kicked by someone! JUST STOP IT!" Briar turned on her heel, running off around the corner of the hallway to one of her many hiding places throughout the ancient house._

 _"Mistress is right, Poppy thinks." A scraggly voice appeared from beside him, a house-elf, stooped slightly from age and just barely reaching his knee._

 _"Poppy," Rurik acknowledged her, eyeing the house-elf with mild dislike. The house-elf scrutinised him with great big, doe-like brown eyes. Poppy had been inherited along with the house, and served both Rurik and Briar faithfully –although admittedly, the house-elf and Rurik shared a mutual distaste for one another. Rurik assumed it was because he was not of the same blood as the original owners –having only married into the family. Unlike Rurik, Briar was heavily favoured by Poppy, thus often siding with her in the frequenting arguments as of late._

 _"Poppy, take care of Briar –make sure she gets her things too, please," he ordered loosely, rubbing his newest scar tenderly –gifted to him by an outraged hinkypunk which had refused to leave a muggle dwelling near Toluca Lake. Rurik sighed, and turned his stare down at the withered elf._

 _"As always, sir." Poppy quipped,, giving Rurik a final once-over, before disapparating with a crack._

* * *

It was a loud _crack_ that woke her, Briar jerked awake, swivelling her sharply coloured eyes in either direction as panic surged up within her –remembering where she was, Briar's tension left her, her slim shoulders drooping in relief. She became vaguely aware that her name was being called from the first floor. Scrambling to a hunched stand, Briar slid open the cupboard door and shut it quickly before the dust could escape into the rest of the house –sneezing as she did.

Briar was greeted at the base of the stairs by a beaming Mrs Weasley –George stood a step behind her dressed in his magenta robe, glowering slightly at his feet and tenderly rubbing his reddened ear.

"Hello, Molly!" Briar greeted her with an enthusiastic hug –and Molly sputtered, coughing as she drew back and waved away the dust which had followed Briar. "H-Hello, dear. Where have you been? We've been calling you for ages and you're covered in filth!"

"Oh, I was er-"she hesitated, "napping in the spare bedroom, significantly quieter without the chatter from George's experiments which he's stuffed in the bedroom closet."

"They're important!" George exclaimed when his mother shot him an accusing glance.

"Well that's all very fine and dandy, but we've got preparations to make!" Molly's round face was red with her enthusiasm, and she began to shove George towards the stairs.

Briar stammered, "preparations!? Preparations for what? The wedding isn't for another two months!" Molly waved away Briar's bewilderment, and gave George a final shove. "A month and a half actually, it takes much more time than that to plan a wedding, so we're in a bit of a crunch –now go sharpen up you two, and Briar, dear, you've got a cobweb in your hair."

George and Briar shared an indignant expression, complying nonetheless for fear of agitating Molly further.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

 _"_ _Ma'am, Poppy must take her Mistress into town for Mistress's school things," Poppy croaked from outside the mirror. With reluctance, and the desire to cause no further burden, Briar unfolded her legs, and carefully pushed the antique, full-length mirror aside, crawling out from the hidden crevice behind it. The same mirror had adorned the same place for centuries, propped up against Briar's bedroom wall –she had discovered the hiding hole after the mirror had fallen from its place after a particularly nasty spattering of a potion-gone-wrong had struck it, the evidence of the event lay in the very right corner where the glass had been shattered, and a portion of the golden frame had been melted. The hiding spot was rather small, making it difficult to hide in for extended periods of time._

 _Briar righted the mirror, crossing the creaking mahogany and lowered herself onto the bedroom's window seat. Poppy retrieved a nearby stool, clambering atop it in order to reach Briar's shoulders, where she corrected the worn, men's woven jacket from where it hung, far too large, off Briar's shoulders. Poppy patted the woolen material fondly.  
"You're a saint, Poppy," Briar praised quietly, watching Poppy's reflection in the window. Although being rather old –ancient it seemed, Poppy was still finely kept. Wearing a lovely handmade dress sewn from a discarded white tablecloth, protected by a threadbare smock –once again made by Poppy from discarded fabrics, even down to the little frills which accented it, which was tied together with a ribbon Briar had gifted her ages ago.  
"Oh, no, Mistress. Poppy is merely grateful for your kindness –but now Poppy must take her Mistress into town."_

 _Briar sighed, but obeyed, pushing up from her seat and allowing Poppy to grasp her arm with work-worn fingers. Poppy, who was older than both Briar and her father combined –probably –had still such a strong grasp.  
With a large crack, the pair vanished –Briar squeezed shut her eyes, as travel made her sick, and waited until the stuffy air and silence of the old house was replaced with the smell of baked goods, dragon dung, and incoherent chatter enveloped her. Briar's pinched eyes flew open, and she took in the sight with wide eyes. Despite being rather young, Briar was remarkably well-traveled. She often accompanied her father on his less dangerous jobs, visiting foreign countries and witnessing sights which most eleven-year-olds would never have the opportunity to see. Of course, this often led to witnessing things that weren't necessarily appropriate for most eleven-year-olds. Although nothing –in Briar's opinion –could beat the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley, no matter if it was the millionth time she'd seen it._

 _"_ _Poppy has sent out for Mistress's items in advance," Poppy informed her, loosening her grip on Briar's arm, although she did not release her –due to the highly probability of Briar being swept up in the crowd and swallowed whole. "Perhaps, Mistress see to receiving her robes –but Poppy may not enter the store," the elf told her, leading her towards a mauve coloured store, the sign overhead with peeling golden letters claiming its name as 'Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions'  
"Wh-Why not?" Briar asked, stuttering in her attempt to mask her anxiousness. In spite of being well-travelled, Briar was allowed very little independence, as most of her visits to foreign places were spent attached to her father's hip, or locked inside a tiny boarding room. "Poppy begs her Mistress's forgiveness, but Poppy fears she may be given clothes to be held," Poppy cupped her drooping ears, shivering violently, "And we house-elves scared of flying scissors, Poppy's ears like to be in one piece, yes, in one piece, Mistress." Briar bobbed her head nervously, rocking her hat askew. "All right, Poppy, stay outside the shop and wait for me, please?"  
"Yes, Mistress," Poppy swept into such a low bow that her nose skimmed the cobble.  
Briar took a deep breath, and turned the doorknob._ _The bell overhead chimed, and Briar released the door –it swung shut with a clang. She was utterly astounded, gaping openly at the swathes of cloth lining the walls, illuminated by harsh, blinding lights. Briar blinked rapidly, overwhelmed by the white glare –._

"Briar are you all right, dear?"  
Briar's sharp eyes flashed open, and she turned away from the luminescent bulbs, her lips splitting into a half-hearted grin. "Er –yeah, yeah I'm fine, Molly. Haven't been sleeping much recently, that's all." Briar gestured to the unconcealed discolouring beneath her eyes.  
Molly laid a hand against her cheek, tutting, "George really ought to relocate those …experiments …of his if they're keeping you up."  
"I suspect it's mostly pre-marital nerves," a distant voice called from beyond rows of coloured swathes of fabrics and silks. "I know I had them when I was getting married!"  
From beneath a bundle of lace and white chiffon, a stout witch emerged, adorned entirely in mauve from her dress to her cat-eyed frames. She beamed at the women, flourishing her wand to command a tape measure to fly about, taking in all of Briar's measurements. Madam Malkin's painted lips stretched in a toothy grin, "I found a few dresses I tucked away a decade or two ago," she gestured to the piles of white cloth which stacked higher than Madam Malkin herself. "So! Would you like a dress made from chiffon, rayon, and charmeuse, satin, silk, organza or a mixture of the lot?"  
Briar just barely suppressed her groan.

It had been Mrs Weasley who had selected the gown Briar now wore, she had taken pity on Briar after she had been overwhelmed by the ordeal and had collapsed into a pile of discarded reject gowns.  
Briar examined herself with a worn eye, impatiently swatting away an animated tape measure as it made an attempt to measure her bust for the sixth time.  
"I like it," she announced, eyeing the simple bead-work adorning the drooping neckline. Briar gave herself another once over, before lowering herself with a groan onto a pile of cloth blinking away the glare from the overhead lights.  
Mrs Weasley pursed her lips, "It's rather simple, although Fleur's was a tad more plain, but that's because she is-"Mrs Weasley cut herself short, shrugging.  
"-A tad more veela-esque," Briar completed rolling her eyes skywards. "I feel like I'm playing dress up in my mum's clothes." Briar grumbled beneath her breath, brushing away invisible dirt from the bead embellishments on her capped sleeves.

"It's lovely, dear." Mrs Weasley assured her. "I'm sure George will love it."  
"R-right," Briar muttered, turning her eyes downward and nervously tugging on the fang piercing which swung from her ear. She hadn't yet considered what George would think of her gown. –She swallowed thickly, her heart had begun to beat heavily. What if he didn't like it?

 _"_ _George!"_

Her brows began to furrow. The dress was rather big on her, what if she tripped going down the aisle!?

 _"_ _Oh George!"_

What if-

 _"_ _George, dear, there you are!"_

Briar blinked widely as she was met face to face with a finger, blinking yet again as it prodded her between her brows. Briar dropped her eyes as George laughed at her reaction, and she blushing furiously.  
"You look fantastic, love," George told her, "Although with all that extra material your dress could be the tent!"  
Briar managed a small laugh, "We'll get it re-sized, and the extra fabric can be used for patching up the tent after Charlie's had one too many drinks like he did at Bill's wedding."  
George laughed sheepishly, his eyes crinkling with delight. "That's probably Fred's and my fault –we said that whiskey breath is attractive to French girls."  
"What was that, George?" Mrs Weasley cut in sharply, her mouth twitching in a manner which usually predated a shouting match. George laughed again, his voice nervously shrill, "Nothing, mum! I think Fred's getting attacked by the ties again!"  
George half-raised from his crouch, before glancing down at Briar who had been observing him with a raised brow. George glanced around at his mother, who hovered over the pair menacingly. "I'll let you know what we're up to later," he whispered, catching her chin with his fingertips and forcing a kiss on her sputtering lips. "Lobe you."  
Briar groaned as his eyes sparked with mischief, and he leapt away from her. She watched his back as George hurried away, shouting something to Fred about, _"The red ties being more aggressive than the blue!"_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"What'd you mean I've got to wear a skirt!?" a loud, brash voice sounded from the kitchen. Briar groaned, muttering incoherently as she rose from bed. She had been in the midst of one of her better dreams when she had been startled awake by a booming shout. Briar drew George's night robe over her sleeping gown, and dragged herself down the stairs and to the kitchen, juggling her wand between her fingers all the while.  
"I figured I knew that obnoxious voice," Briar muttered groggily, padding across the kitchen.  
Drew Goldstein eyed the small woman with a critical eye framed by thick lenses, "Briar, have you been dragged through hell and back or what?"  
"Oi! Take that back you-"  
"Feels like it, certainly," Briar cut short George's angry retort. Drew snorted, shoving his glasses back up the length of his nose, "I'd normally figure that soon-to-be spouses would be glowing, although being married to an oaf like flame-head here probably would have snuffed out that glimmer."  
"Hey!-"  
"You're thinking of pregnant women, Drew," Briar cut through George's angry shout yet again, "And try not to insult my fiancé, especially in his own home."  
"Whatever," Drew glowered, shaking his sandy curls from his eyes and leaning heavily against the counter. In the year since Voldemort's end Drew had matured vastly, although his biting attitude remained the same. His hair now curled past his ears and he stood an inch taller than George. Drew had remained as slender and lanky as he had been when he was a teenager.  
"Although you've both become rather comfortable since marriage," Drew teased, eyeing George in a manner that had him cross his arms over his developing paunch and scowl at Drew in an uncharacteristic manner. It was just like Drew to bring the worst out of people.

Briar rolled her eyes skywards, "Coffee, anyone?" At Drew's scrunched nose, Briar nodded to herself, "And tea for Drew, is earl grey okay?"  
Briar waved her wand and set the kettle to work –a trick she had learned from Mrs Weasley, which she had mastered in no time. After all, Charms had been one of her better classes.  
"So, what was the shouting about?" Briar asked, twiddling her wand between her fingertips anxiously. George drew up, clearing his throat as he turned his glare away from Drew. He eyed her expression as he spoke, "Drew here figured that he'd like to be in the wedding party."  
Drew scoffed, "Not anymore, what with the requirements needing a fluffy pink skirt."

"Oi! You're the one who promised!" George shot back.  
"I thought we were going to all die! –It _was_ a war, y'know!"  
"You said-"

"ENOUGH!" Briar bellowed –the kettle which had been pouring the scorching water capsized and clattered to the floor. Briar cursed loudly, flicking the burning droplets away from her skin, and snatched a towel. George scrambled to help her, mopping the water from the floor as Briar returned to the sink and manually refilled the kettle.  
Silence hung in the air as the couple tidied the mess as Drew observed the pair with an air of curiosity.

Drew shoved his square frames back up his nose, "But yes, I'd still like to be involved in the wedding party, that's what friends are for, right?"  
A grin stretched across Briar's pale face, and she beamed her brilliant smile at him. "You can be my maid of honour!"  
At this Drew scowled, "Man of honour!" Briar ignored his correction, stifling a shout of excitement, she flung her arms around the man as he sputtered, flailing his arms and nearly knocking his own glasses askew.  
"Hey! What are you-"He fell silent, dropping his arms with a heavy sigh and relinquished by patting her shoulder lamely.  
"Thanks, Drew."

* * *

"George, what the bloody hell are you doing?" Those were the first words from her mouth as she entered the living area, dropping her tote bag on the floor where it fell with an unusually loud _thump._ She had only just arrived home in a sour mood from a meeting in the Auror office, and she had found George strewn across the floor of the living area.  
George sat up quickly, grinning nervously. "N-nothing, love."  
Briar rose a brow, unimpressed. "George," the tone of her voice threatened a shouting match if he didn't fess up quickly. George cleared his throat, his nervous grin widening, "How was work then? You said something about a meeting, right?"  
 _He was attempting to change the topic_ , Briar noticed. She crossed her arms over her chest and stalked over to him. "What are you hiding from me?"  
"N-Nothing, love, nothing at all," George said as he scrambled to a stand. Even as he towered over the tiny woman, she maintained an intimidating air, reminding George of his mother on a particularly bad day. "So what happened at work today?"  
"What happened at home today?" Briar countered –her hair was tightly bound up, and the suit dress and blazer she wore aged her considerably. George scratched at stubble poking up from his chin, "I was doing some cleaning," he lied.  
"You never clean," Briar grumbled, "and if you were going to, start by cleaning the bedroom cupboard, I can't sleep with all the racket those contraptions make."  
"They're important," George insisted. "So is my sleep!" Briar shot back, glowering up at him as she stiffened her jaw.  
"They're for work," George explained hastily, "I need to keep an eye on them, so I've got to check on them a lot in the night and it's just easier.-"  
"Well maybe you ought to sleep in another room," Briar cut him off. George fell silent, his mouth twitching with the effort not to antagonize her further. "Briar, I-""Forget it," she cut him off harshly her heart thudding rapidly, "I've got to head back to work anyway, have a good evening." Her tone was crisp and formal, although her eyes were sparked with an unreasonable rage. George opened his mouth in retort, although he was cut off with a sharp _crack_ as Briar twisted on her heel and Disapparated.

* * *

 ** _AN:_**

 ** _If you or anyone you love is experiencing PTSD or post-traumatic stress disorder, please seek the help that you or someone else needs. PTSD is a terrible infliction which is dangerous to the victim and anyone around them. Save a life, and get the help._**

 ** _Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I a medical professional. Anything written about PTSD is the result of a few Google searches._**

 ** _-AL._**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Sweat clung to the hairs at the nape of her neck, leaving Briar sticky and uncomfortable. She hadn't discarded her trench coat with its numerous pockets like the others had –she had scolded them, as with her experience the trench coats helped deflect spells and it carried the necessary equipment for the job.  
 _"It's not like the war's still on, Chief."_ One of the men had told her. She had promptly told him to shut up and that she was going to make him file his own paperwork if he lost a limb. Briar hadn't been out in the field in ages –nearly half a year it seemed, she had always sent the Aurors out on their own as there's been very little fieldwork to since the war had ended. But recently there's been an influx of life-threatening mischief in the muggle world, attributed to some bored wizards who were making a game out of how many muggles they could trap in perilous places. It began with phone booths and elevators before moving onto mailboxes and trash bins before finally there was an incident with a garbage disposal. Finally, Briar had put her foot down at the apparent incompetence of her Auror's inability to capture these mischief makers and had decided she needed to teach these newbies the proper way to handle it.

"Chief, you're sure these clothes are what muggle men wear?" Finch grumbled, tugging at the unfamiliar denim. "It's chaffing my legs!"  
"Obviously," Briar muttered, crossing one denim-clad leg over the other –she hadn't worn casual muggle clothes in ages. "Just because you're used to the breeze with those skirts of yours doesn't mean muggles are."  
Finch turned a furious hue of red and sputtered as his other two colleagues, Wilson and Kelly, roared with laughter. Finch had previously gone undercover wearing a kilt on a rather windy day. "Kelly!" Finch whined, "You're supposed to be on my side!"  
"Just because we're married doesn't mean I can't laugh at you!" Kelly retorted, flicking away her vibrant red hair as a breeze upset it. Briar rolled her eyes skywards, sighing. "You two are impossible to integrate into a muggle society! Look at Wilson for example, you'd never know he wasn't a muggle!"  
Sure enough, the newest addition to the team had dressed appropriately, clad in a pair of jeans and a muted button-up –a perfect camouflage, unlike Kelly's vibrant hair or Finch's coiled beard. Wilson, who sat furthest from Briar, beamed over at her. He was a quiet man, handsome and not much younger than herself. Despite his age, he was a protégé at the top of his class, and had little to no casualties in his training.

Briar sighed to herself, "You lot need plenty more experience, just keep your eyes on the street."  
Briar sipped casually from a mug. Kelly had been the one to choose an outdoor café across the street from a less-popular set of mailboxes which had been hit numerous times despite the constant surveillance. Briar was keeping a mental tally on how well her colleagues scored during this outing –as far as it seemed, Wilson was the highest scoring, whereas Kelly needed touching up in the transfiguration department and Finch ought to reconsider his line of work.  
Briar sighed again, she hadn't been home much recently due to the sudden influx of work. It required constant management –her Aurors had gotten lazy and out of practice. She hadn't seen George much either since her outburst, it seemed like he was avoiding her –coming home from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes much later than normal, leaving the room as soon as she entered it, and he hadn't set foot in their bedroom since that afternoon. Although those experiments of his still chattered away in the cupboard, she noted.  
"You alright, Chief?" Finch inquired, "You're scowling."  
"I'm fine," Briar responded sharply, "Focus on your work Finch, you've been walking a fine line recently."  
Kelly and Finch exchanged a glance, and both fell silent, turning their eyes back to the street.

* * *

It had taken another hour –and a Confundus charm on their waitress, before there had been any suspicious activity near the mailbox.  
Three men had approached the mailbox, one stood further back from the pair, undoubtedly the look-out as the other two men fumbled around the mailboxes. "That's them," Finch nodded, "I saw them last time."  
"We'll do this quietly," Briar muttered, drawing her colleagues' attention. "Kelly, get near the look out and shut him up –Wilson, look like you're going to mail a letter, and Finch you've got my back."  
As instructed, Kelly was the first to rise, vanishing around the corner of the café and disapparating with a muted _crack_ , and reappearing in an alleyway behind the lookout. Wilson was next, crossing the street and holding a stack of envelopes –the two men scrambled apart, watching eagerly for the result of their handiwork. Finally, Briar rose with Finch at her tail and she started towards the men –effectively cornering them.  
Finch walked quicker than Briar –and he surpassed her stride in seconds. Briar hissed at him to get back, but it was too late –The pair of men had spotted them, recognising Finch instantly, and one had thrown a spell. Finch was too slow –Briar shoved him aside. Red stained the front of her trench coat, and she stumbled backwards, a searing pain shooting up her abdomen. She cursed, ignoring the wound and quickly stunning the man who had thrown the spell just as Wilson stunned the other.  
"Ah, shit," Finch groaned, picking himself up from the cobble sidewalk, he brushed the dirt away from his knees. Finch took a single look at Briar and muttered something about helping Kelly and hurried around the corner. Briar ignored him, tucking her wand back into her sleeve. She glanced around –the street hadn't been busy thankfully, as it was growing late into the evening and most muggles had left their workplaces.  
Briar started towards the men crumpled at Wilson's feet but halted as a surge of pain shot through her abdomen. "Fuckin' Finch," Briar muttered to herself, her frame bent to the pain and her hands scrambled to apply pressure to the wound. "I'm sending him back to training for another year, he's a fuckin' hazard –ah, _damn_." She cursed again, Wilson was at her side in a second but she waved him off. "Let's just get these guys out of here before they cause anyone concern."  
"I've already sent for someone to pick them up," Kelly said, appearing from around the corner. "Finch's got the one bound and gagged already, and thanks Chief." Kelly offered a small smile, "He's already expecting the reprimand –but never mind that, let's get you to St. Mungo's."

* * *

Briar returned home after being admitted into the fourth floor of St. Mungo's for two hours where she sat enduring the excruciating pain of her skin being sutured back together. Although it hadn't been nearly as bad as the time she had to get her leg reattached due to an overly rambunctious troll. Nonetheless, she was in a fairly bitter mood when she returned home bundled up in bandages, a stack of paperwork and a ruined trench coat in hand, as well as an order to avoid any stress that may cause her flesh to split open again. "Avoid stress my arse," Briar muttered obscenely to herself, kicking off her boots with little regard for order, and stalking towards the kitchen.

"Briar?" George's voice echoed curiously, his head emerged from inside the stove as she entered the kitchen. Briar tossed her torn and blood-stained coat over a chair, and dropped her stack of paperwork with an unceremonious _clunk._  
"B-Briar?" George repeated, starting towards her.  
"So you're not avoiding me now?" Briar muttered, cringing visibly as she lowered herself down onto a chair. George sputtered for a moment before replying, "Fred's coming over so I was making some –what the hell happened?"  
The tank she had worn beneath her trench coat had clung to her wound and had to be cut away, leaving Briar with only the top half of her shirt while her abdomen had been bound by bandages.  
"Briar, bloody hell," George sputtered, "Literally. Bloody hell –are you alright?"  
"I've had worse," she brushed him off, half-tempted to leave the room –although the strain of lifting herself from her chair might just open the wound. Instead, she turned to her paperwork –transfer documents, she was sending Finch back to training, sparing him and anyone else from further damage –she hadn't been gentle when reprimanding him.

"Briar," George repeated, although she ignored him.  
"Briar," George repeated again, stepping closer. When she refused to respond she heard him sigh. She didn't turn her eyes from her paperwork, half expecting to hear his feet pad away. Instead she heard him start towards her, "Blimey, BRIAR!"  
She jumped visibly –wide eyed, she turned to him. George never shouted –she was the one who shouted. George towered over her, his arms folded over his chest and a stern expression unlike anything she's seen.  
"We've been dating for four years now but that doesn't seem to mean much to you!" George shouted. "You've been so bitter and angry –I've tried not to start anything, but hell everything seems to piss you off! Do you even want to get married!?"  
Briar fell silent, a knot had developed in her throat and a burning feeling surged up her torso. She hadn't ever heard George shout at her –he wasn't the sort of person to, but now he seemed like an entirely different person. …Perhaps that's how he's seen her?  
George cursed suddenly, scrambling to grab a tea towel from the countertop. He knelt and pressed the towel to her abdomen and Briar realised that her wound had started bleeding again.  
"George, i-it's fine, this is supposed to happen a few times it's just part of the procedure – _ah shit, ow."_ She groaned, scrambling for her coat. She retracted a vial the healer who had been tending to her gave to Briar, and she downed it with a single gulp, shivering in revulsion at the taste. Gradually, the spread of blood across her bandages ceased, and George eased up the pressure.  
"What's that stuff?" he asked, still knelt before her. "Blood-replenishing draught, it helps clot the bleeding," Briar explained, tucking away the vial in her coat.  
The pair were silent for a moment longer, George's words still hung in the air. _'Do you even want to get married!?'_  
 _Did she?_ The answer came simply. Of course she did –you couldn't survive a war with someone and not want to afterwards. If anything, she couldn't picture a life without him.  
"George-?"  
George had slipped his arms around her waist and he had burrowed his face against one of the less sticky parts of her abdomen. Startled, Briar hesitated a second before slipping a hand through his brightly coloured hair, and she rested her chin atop her head. She closed her eyes as tears threatened to emerge. When had it been the last time they spared themselves a moment for each other?  
"I love you, George," Briar told him, "I-I'm sorry. I really do want to get married."  
George rose his head and stretched out a hand to lace his fingers through her curls. His lips pressed fervently against hers, warm and subduing, he enveloped her. Soon enough, they drew back for a breath and their eyes met. His, hazel and twinkling with mischief, while she with her startling blue gaze turned her eyes downwards, a blush working its way across her fairness of her face.  
No works were spoken, and George eagerly sought out her lips, _hungry, greedy_. And Briar was all too willing.

* * *

Not long after, the couple lie entangled together, still damp from their shower. George had nestled his face against the crook of her neck, his snores rumbling against her skin. Briar gazed up sleepily at the ceiling, content. They had spoken about their insecurities and had since resolved them –it seemed Drew had gotten to George, and as a result, George had decided to lose the paunch he had developed although he had been too embarrassed to admit so. And Briar had admitted she had hid her ring away out of pre-marital nerves.  
The ring which embezzled her forth finger yet again seemed to catch the light streaming in through the window, she admired the stone for a moment longer before allowing her hand to fall and rest against George's back where her fingers drew patterns. All was peaceful, the snores buzzing in her ear, the monotone _thump-thump_ of the experiments in the cupboard –the smell of smoke.  
 _…Wait! Smoke!?_

Briar's eyes snapped open, and she let out a shriek. She jumped from the bed, rousing George in her panic. "The food, George!"  
George cursed loudly, and drew up after her as she streaked down the stairs. Briar doused the fiery, spitting oil from the frying pan with a gust of water from her wand while George threw open the oven door and tossed the burning roast into the basin of the sink –waving away the smoke which followed.  
"Bloody hell!" A high-spirited voice bellowed out –Briar squeaked, ducking behind a shirtless George –she wore nothing but bandages and an open housecoat, which she hurriedly tied up.  
Fred emerged into the kitchen, throwing open a nearby window and grinning as he did. "Got a bit distracted, eh?"  
Briar turned a furious red, and nestled her face into George's back as he laughed. "Just a tad, mate –you're a bit early, aren't you?"  
"I figured I might help out since you lot went and had a bit of a domestic dispute although it seems you've worked it out!"  
Briar peered around George and spoke rather sheepishly, "Er, George, Fred? My wound's opened up again."

* * *

 ** _A.N:_**

 ** _Fun fact! In the entire series of "Corruption," this is the first time Briar has told George, 'I love you.' Ironically, Briar is the name of a particularly prickly shrub, which was the inspiration for her 'prickly' attitude!_**

 ** _I do not own Harry Potter._**

 ** _-Al._**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"NO WAY IN HELL, GEORGE WEASLEY!"  
 _"But Briar,"_ George whined audibly from upstairs, "Mum managed seven, I'm only asking for six!"  
"The only way that's happening is if you're the one going to be popping them out!" Briar retort loudly, storming down the stairs.

"What the hell are the pair of you fighting about this time?" Fred groaned from the entrance, removing his shoes. "I thought you two were done fighting!"  
Briar snorted as appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered up at George as he started down the stairs after her. "I took a week off of work to recuperate and I'm already tired of him!"  
"George, mate, she's injured, you shouldn't get too frisky with her just yet," Fred teased, a grin marring his freckled face. Briar groaned, swatting Fred and marching off.

"So what happened?" Fred asked his brother, "I come to my third home and every time I do the pair of you are having a row."  
"IF THIS IS YOUR HOME THEN YOU OUGHT TO DO MORE CLEANING!" Briar shouted from the other end of the house. Fred and George ignored her, although matching grins stretched across their faces.  
"We've been talking about kids, I want at least six and Briar's not having it."  
"I'VE GOT A BLOODY CAREER, GEORGE!" Briar shouted again.  
"She's got a point, mate," Fred shrugged, "Briar's fantastic, but having six kids would make her hair go white."  
"IT'S ALREADY WHITE FROM DEALING WITH GEORGE!" Briar retorted –Fred and George could her the typically clatter of cutlery and dishes.  
"Don't bother with supper for us, love," George called out, "Fred and I are having a boys night."  
There was a pause in the clattering and they heard her grumble, "I wasn't making anything for the pair of you anyway…"

George shook his head, grinning as the clatter of silverware began again, "So where are we going tonight?"  
"A pub in the middle of London, there's some pretty ladies there so you ought to keep on your ring," Fred waggled his brows. George raised his left hand, "Already on display –am I going to have to drop your arse off at mums or at the flat?"  
"Nah," Fred clapped George's shoulder, "We've got Lee for that, and a few other blokes. My mission tonight is to get you plastered!"  
There was a look of hesitance, and George paused for a moment before he called out, "Love?"  
"The hell do you want?" Briar grumbled, appearing in the doorway of the kitchen. George leant down and forced a kiss on her cheek, "Fred's taking me out drinking, alright?"  
Briar shrugged, fighting a blush, "If you come home puking, I'm not cleaning it up."  
"Sounds good!" Fred chirped, catching George's shoulder. "Let's go! Later, Briar!"  
"If he dies of alcohol poisoning, I'll kill you myself!" Briar called after them cheerfully.  
"Love you too!" Fred retorted, waving a hand over his shoulder.

The door clattered shut behind the two men, and Briar was left staring after them –she had little to occupy herself –no books, no paperwork, no cleaning… An idea came to mind, perhaps a girls night in?

* * *

"I don't know why you invited me if you wanted a girl's night," Drew grumbled, shoving his glasses up his nose to hide his embarrassment. "It's not appropriate to go drinking wine with my work friends," Briar shrugged, leading him into the house. Drew kicked off his trainers and followed after her –he still wore his ministry regulated robes which were stained with peculiar green substance. "I _am_ a work friend," Drew muttered, "we don't work in the same Department is all."  
" _You're different,"_ Briar told him, a grin worked its way across her face at his visible blush, "besides, I rarely get to see now that you've started work in the Department of Mysteries! How's being an Unspeakable?"  
"I'm not allowed to say," Drew retorted, rolling his eyes skywards.  
"Glad you said so, now I won't have to arrest you," she teased him. "Other than that, how's life in general?"  
"What life?" Drew grumbled, "Just a second these robes are getting to me-"With little regard for decency, Drew grabbed the back of his robes and pulled them over his head. Briar was relieved to see that he wore a pair of trousers and a knitted jumper underneath. Drew stuffed his robe into his satchel, stretching with a groan and dropped onto a chair. "I've been working a bunch since I've started –ah, well, no rest for the weary."  
"So no girlfriend then?" Briar teased him, "Wine or beer?"  
"Wine," Drew responded, "And no I haven't, the one girl I can actually tolerate is getting married."  
"Oh? Who's that?" she grinned wider as he shook his head. "Is it your mum? She's getting re-married so soon? That's lovely!-""Ah, shut it," Drew tossed at her, with little malice in his tone.  
"What about Luna Lovegood?" Briar asked him, "You used to think she was charming."  
"And completely off her rocker."

Briar put two wine glasses between them, pouring out the moscato. She filled both of their glasses, and held out her glass. "Cheers," Drew tapped his glass against hers and downed half of the beverage in a gulp. Briar observed him with a raised brow. Drew ignored her, rubbing a tender spot on his shoulder. She noted the tension in his frame –before he began at the Ministry, Drew had worked at a muggle paper –the transition and the sudden workload must be putting plenty of strain on him.  
"So how're those nightmares of yours going?" Drew spoke finally, he was now only sipping at his wine. Briar sighed and shook her head, "A bit better, but they haven't stopped –it's been the same thing lately. Everyone just getting blown to bits right before my eyes and then suddenly I'm getting charged at by these misty shadows –like –like the souls of everyone who died…"  
"That's some tough shit," Drew stated, as brash as ever. "Look, my mother went through this when she got back from Afghanistan –"at Briar's furrowed brows, he explained. "Mum's a muggle, and she used to be a military doctor before she figured she should come home and raise me nice and proper –anyway, mum got these awful nightmares all the time and she stills gets them now and again –it's normal, okay? It'll take time, but they won't haunt you consistently forever."  
Briar nodded, feeling oddly relieved. "I hope you're right… More wine?"

"D-Drew, we've got a spare bedroom –a-actually we've got like six, come on, get off the couch!" Briar sputtered, wobbling the tiniest bit. The pair had gone through two wine bottles before they had moved onto something stronger –Briar wasn't much of a drinker, nor was Drew it seemed. However, Briar was considerably less sloshed than Drew, and was attempting to coax him into a proper bed.  
"I'm good here, B." Drew murmured, waving her off. He burrowed his face into one of the cushions, ignoring Briar as she prodded at his side.  
"If you so much as grumble tomorrow morning, I'm going to punch you," Briar threatened –although Drew had already begun to snore. She sighed, and tottered over to linen cupboard where she retrieved a bundle of blankets. Briar returned to the living area, and cupped Drew's head and lifted it just enough to fit a folded blanket fashioned to be a pillow. With that, she began tucking him in.

"Briar?" George's voice called out from the entrance, followed by the clatter of shoes and a door swinging shut. Briar didn't respond for fear of waking Drew –she layered another blanket over Drew, and tucked in the sides.  
An arm curled itself just below her breasts –wary of the wound across her abdomen. "You'd be a good mother," George muttered, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck and remained there. He smelt of whiskey. A small smile crossed her lips, "Maybe, but I'd like to wait a while before I find out for sure."  
"Me too," he replied, "I'm a bit too selfish to want to share you just yet."  
Before Briar could retort, Drew growled out, "Quit feckin' schmoozin', I'm tryna' sleep."  
George drew back slightly, "So why's he kipping out on the sofa?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

 _Atop the largest and loneliest hill in the Blackdown Hills stood a rather imposing home which swung in the breeze; white-washed stone was hardly seen amongst the sprawling ivy and yew which consumed each of the reaching spires. Each spire stretched towards the heavens, and at the tallest spire there was a single, lonesome window. A young girl sat at that window each day, gazing out onto the overgrown garden with its fountain that no longer held water, and a tire swing which now only swung with the wind, and the drooping willows which marked the end of which she could see.  
The room's walls sat hidden beneath a line of shelves, shelves which overflowed with books. Wonderful books, new books, old books, books which sung when opened, and books that could not be opened. In the centre of the room sat a comfortable sofa, its cushions worn from use and groaned when sat on. This too was piled with books. Although, despite all of the pages which opened to greedy, curious eyes, the girl refused to touch even her favourites._

 _The breeze which remained ever present in these windy hills broke past the opened shutters and past the young girl. She shut her eyes to the wind, flinching at its chill. The robes which she wore were simple and plain and a pointed hat sat firmly atop her blond, lightning-bolt curls. She was fair in ways that others were not, with a sharp chin and a pointed nose she gave the appearance of a rather pretty elf. Although when her eyes fluttered open at the tentative knock at the door, her reflection in the glass was met with a pair of sharply coloured eyes. A pale blue which seemed to catch the light in a way that made her look as though her stare fixed on something which most eyes could not see.  
The door swung open, and a young man stood in the doorway –he had not yet reached his thirtieth year, although the appearance of many scars and sun-aged skin gave the man a much older look. He sighed, running a hand speckled with shiny welts down the fresh scars marring his face.  
"Briar," he called her attention, and he grimaced when she turned. Tears still clung to her pale lashes, and her expression threatened another fit of tears. "Briar," he said again, his tone was cautious, "I suppose it was the shock –she was rather old, you know." Briar's chin fell to her chest, and her hat slouched over, hiding her expression. "I know," she responded, her voice thick.  
The man, Rurik, noticed the sleeve of crackers he had given her lay untouched, and he sighed again. "We've got to go, do you have all your things?"  
When she nodded, Rurik held out a hand for her to hold, although he expected her to refuse. "Come on then, shut that window up and we'll go." Briar drew up, closing and locking the shutters. With a gesture of her hand, the curtains flew shut, effectively darkening the room. Rurik knew better than to scold her at this point in time, he bit his tongue. And to his surprise, Briar shyly accepted his hand._

 _With the old, swaying house sealed up, and mounds of luggage piled around the pair, Briar and Rurik stared back at their home. Briar, with her eyes to the future, she couldn't help but notice that her father's lay in the past.  
"Where is she, dad?" Briar asked him. Rurik blinked, shaking his head. With a swollen finger he pointed to the largest drooping willow, and beneath that willow lay freshly dug dirt, and a polished stone which read, 'Poppy.'  
Briar hiccoughed, seemingly choking on her own tears. Rurik took her hand yet again, spinning on the spot and the pair disappeared with a crack._

* * *

"So what'd you think, Briar?"  
Briar blinked sharply –she set the mug of coffee she had been sipping from aside and cleared her throat, "S-sorry, what was that?"  
"By the willows there," George said, staring at her from over Fred's shoulder. They were currently occupying the upstairs flat of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. "What about the willows?" Briar asked, tugging absently at her fang earring.  
"Blimey, Briar," Fred stressed, "Have you been listening at all? We were wondering if the wedding should be held at the Burrow or at your house."  
"Oh, er-" Briar sputtered, "I think at the Burrow –it's always so windy at home, the tent would blow away if we tried to set it up there."  
"Good point," George hummed, "by the way how're those Briar's Beloved Brew's coming along?"  
The brew in question was currently sputtering atop the stove, spewing purple all over the kitchen. "Shit!" Briar cursed, scrambling to a stand and knocking over her cup of coffee in the process.  
As she stirred the brew back down to a simmer, Briar recalled that she ought to hand out a few invitations to some work friends –"George!" she called out over her shoulder.  
"Yes, love?" George appeared in the doorway of the kitchenette. "I'll need some invitations to take to work tomorrow morning, is there some left over?" she asked him.  
"Hardly," George snorted, he entered the kitchen and coiled an arm loosely around her waist, resting his chin atop her shoulder, "Mum's sent out so many already I'll be surprised if there's even a spot left for the bride herself."  
"Shouldn't we have set the location before we sent out the invitations –we're going to be so unprepared!" Briar groaned. George gave a shrug, "Mum'll handle it. She's already gone into a fit about the wedding being at the end of the month –I suspect she's going to bleach the chickens once she finds out the wedding's at the burrow."

Briar managed to crack a smile –and focused her attention on the potion before her. Since a certain incident in their last year involving a rather hazardous brew of Amortentia, Briar has been their primary supplier for most potions for sale –when she has the time of course.  
"What do you smell?" Briar asked him. George leant over her shoulder and took a great sniff. A dreamy look crossed his face, and the arms around her waist tightened, "I told you before haven't I? Broom polish, mum's cooking and perfume."  
"You never did said whose perfume you smelled," Briar teased him. George grinned, his hands splayed across her stomach as he spoke, "Obviously it's from the line of smells the Weird Sisters brought out," he teased her, "Something like O'du Odor? Or P.U. Pungency?"  
"Perhaps, B.O. Oh Boy!" Fred chimed from the other room. Briar laughed, nudging George's side with her elbow, "Quit it, you jerks!"  
George prodded her back, "You didn't tell us what you smelled either!"  
A blush rose to Briar's face, and she laughed nervously as she blew away the smoke was which beginning to rise from the brew. "Well, you know," her cheeks darkened, "Spearmint, old books and –and." "Come on, we're dying to know," George pressed, grinning. Fred appeared in the doorway of the kitchen with a matching grin. Briar huffed, and slammed the lid over the cauldron "–Oh whatever, I'm marrying you anyway. It was the smell of our old house elf's cooking!"  
"Eh!?" Both Fred and George shouted in unison. "Blimey, I thought you were going to say my shampoo or something!-""-You had a bloody house elf? How rich are you!?"  
"I never said anything because I was really frowned upon!" Briar huffed. "I didn't want anyone thinking I was a spoiled brat."  
"Well you were, weren't you?-" "-Bloody well off is what you were!" "-Imagine even having a house elf, you'd never have to lift a finger!-" "-All you'd have to do was shout, and _bam_ a servant at the ready!"  
Briar groaned, throwing off George's arm, "It really wasn't like that! She just took care of me when dad went off to work, I didn't have a mother like you two!"  
The pair fell silent at once, and they both simultaneously remembered how Briar's side lacked in numbers. George looked on guiltily, while Fred scratched the nape of his neck and sheepishly replied, "Well us Weasley's can make up the numbers, don't worry too much about it, Briar."  
"Yeah," she mumbled, turning her eyes to the window, peering out over the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley. "Yeah, I know."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Preparation for the wedding took quite some time –and a lot more cleaning than Briar would expect. Mrs Weasley had written up a list of chores to be completed for the day in question. The lawn had yet to be spruced up, and the garden still needed to be de-gnomed, but it was the cleanest The Burrow had ever been. Even the chickens seemed less scruffy.  
But it had been far from an easy day. Briar had been roused from sleep, sweating profusely and a scream still lingering on her lips. George hovered about her, concern knotting his brows in a very un-George-like way. The day was quickly followed by incident after incident. Briar had already pried the curtains from Ronald's neck more than twice.

The days were quickly growing hotter –evidence of which gleamed against Briar's temples. She lingered over the garden, pulling weeds that looked suspiciously similar to the flowers Mrs Weasley had planted. Sitting back on her heels, Briar gazed up at the cloudless sky, watching as Fred and Ginny whipped past on their broomsticks. The pair had claimed they were taking a break. Two hours ago.  
With a short exhale, Briar forced away the smile that had worked itself across her face. Smiling had been a problem lately. With the wedding so close, Briar waited for each hour to pass with a nervous anticipation, glancing superstitiously at her watch, as if that would make time pass quicker. Marriage. Marriage was simultaneously terrifying, and exhilarating.

"Oi, Briar!" Fred bellowed from above. Briar spared him a glance as he dropped down beside her.  
"George and I never did teach you how to fly, did we?" Fred noted aloud, watching her expression. The colour vanished from her cheeks, and she swallowed thickly, "I'd really rather not."  
"Aw, come on Briar," Fred nudged her. "We did promise you!" Shaking her head, Briar replied, "No, really. Flying terrifies me."  
Ginny exchanged a smirk with Fred –since the end of the war, Ginny had grown tremendously and definition lined every visible muscle. This of course meant little maturity-wise.  
"Well," Ginny began, "you could either sit here pulling up mum's flowers, or you could grow a pair and leap on." Briar eyed the younger woman nervously. Ginny _had_ been drafted into the Holyhead Harpies the year prior. Briar squared her jaw after a moment, and stood. She approached Ginny's broom nervously. The dark wood of the broom gleamed with an attractive finish, and the bristles seemed well-kept. _It was now or never._ The younger woman courteously extended a hand and pulled Briar onto the broom. Cackling in a manner unlike a muggle witch, Ginny leaned forward. With a lurch, the broom zoomed forward, and a shrill shriek filled the air.

* * *

"Never again," Briar announced, gasping for air against her new porcelain friend. George leant against the sink, his eyes twinkling with forbidden laughter. "Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't bail the first time you fell off," he retorted. Briar groaned, her brows knitting together as her stomach lurched. "If you think you're so good on a broom yourself, why don't you pick one up and do some sweeping for once," Briar snapped. Unblinking, George lowered himself to the cool tile of the washroom's floor. He was used to her sharp retorts by now. "Although I wish you would've saved your trip 'round the moon after the wedding," he added with an afterthought, "being a widower sounds cooler anyhow." She ignored him, spitting away the taste of bile.  
"Why'd you hate brooms anyhow?" George wondered aloud, prodding her for conversation. He had downed far too much fire-whiskey with Charlie that evening. Briar sighed, shuffling to lay her head against George's thigh. "I might as well tell you –what I remember anyhow," she spoke, her voice quiet. "I do have family –somewhere, I mean. Rurik took off when he found out levitating the pet cat for fun and shattering the windows when he was angry wasn't exactly normal. So when he had a kid who could do the same, he wasn't exactly eager to bring me 'round for Sunday roast."  
George's fingers tangled in her curls, struggling to pull one of the many twigs from her unruly mane. Briar closed her eyes, allowing the gentle tugging to lull her.

"One day, Rurik brought over this man –at first I thought he was one of dad's work friends. But dad introduced him as some distant cousin. 'He's like us,' I remember dad saying." Briar flinched as the twig in her hair came loose with a particularly sharp tug. George murmured an apology, rubbing gently at her tender scalp. Briar relaxed once more, feeling the careful scrape of his short fingernails against her scalp. _It was sad in a way_ , Briar reflected, _Dad must've so felt isolated from his family._  
"Anyway," Briar continued. "So this guy –my cousin, I guess, brings out this broom…"

* * *

 **AN:**

 **When you write a story, I find that you fall in love with your characters. Whether a villain, or a self-described "hero," you really have to know your character before you write about them. Unfortunately, I feel like I have fallen out with Briar York. After a particularly kind and tear-jerking review from _Namida-Kaida_ , I took the time to sit down with a couple cans of fruity liquor and re-read the Corruption series. I decided to try it again. If this chapter feels out of sync, I apologize, and I sincerely ask that those who read it allow me some time to get back in the groove.**

 **If I do complete this story, you have _Namida-Kaida_ to thank. In the meantime, I would like to thank this reviewer -so, _thank you._ It's people like you who truly make this world a wonderful place.  
**

 **Sincerely,**

 **AL.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

 _The wood of the broom handle seemed to be near-rotting, and a few patches of the broom's head were barren. Briar blinked down at the broomstick, her face impassive.  
"So, how about we try it?" The excitement was palpable on the young man's face, and she felt bad for wanting to turn him down. Briar glanced uncertainly at her father, unsure whether or not to trust this strange man. While he wasn't the sort that mothers would hide their children from, the young man introduced simply as "Harlow" was unusual. Although lately everything had been unusual. It was her twelfth summer, and subsequently her twelfth new home. But their constant moving seemed to bother Rurik little. In fact, the only thing that moved Rurik was this young man. While visibly not much older in appearance, Briar knew that the age gap between the pair was significant –and yet Rurik looked to this "Harlow" with reverence.  
"I –I don't know," Briar muttered, watching as this stranger's face fell. Instantly, Rurik's attention snapped to Briar. "Nonsense. Your broom lessons at Hogwarts were a failure –let Harlow teach you, Briar."_

 _Briar's ears stung with shame. It was one thing to announce her failures, but another to broadcast it to someone else. Harlow blinked away Rurik's words, tossing back his dark coloured hair from his eyes. "It'll be fun," Harlow pressed, his white teeth gleamed promisingly. Briar hesitated a second longer, but at her father's sharp gaze and the urge to prove herself to her father, she gave in._

* * *

Predictably, the wood of the broom had snapped. And Briar plummeted from a height comparable to a nearby chapel's highest steeple. Luckily, she had managed a charm that halted her abrupt descent, a scream still caught lingering in her throat.  
"I just couldn't get over the feeling of falling," Briar muttered against George's thigh. "And the fact that Rurik just blindly trusted some kid because he shared the same last name. –You know, I never did see that Harlow guy again after that."  
George's face registered something similar to disgust. "Blimey, Freddie and I never would have pushed you if we knew–" "-It's okay," Briar cut in quickly, leaning up to capture George's cheek. She pressed her lips against the stubble he had forgotten to shave, "You didn't know. Besides, it's a stupid old childhood fear. Just like being afraid of the dark." George caught her gaze with his, "Just lemme know next time you're feeling the urge to nose-dive the dirt. Deal?"  
A barely-there smile tugged at the corners of Briar's thin lips, "Deal-." Briar was cut short as George pressed his lips against hers. And then he pulled back, wiping at his tongue with the edge of his sleeve.  
Laughter bubbled against her tongue. Briar's bright eyes crinkled with humor as George tried to wipe away the taste of bile. "You should let me brush my teeth before you try something like that," Briar announced, a grin splitting her face.

* * *

Briar York was many things. A talented witch, brilliant in both spellwork and diplomacy, and all the while managing two separate jobs as Head Auror and potionsmaster for Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. Briar York was many things, and today, Briar York was sick.  
George had woke up that morning to an unusual amount of heat. When he turned to Briar, he found her buried beneath most of their blankets, shivering enough to quiver the bed. When he had pressed his palm against her brow to check for a fever, the resulting heat had blistered his palm.  
Hours later, Briar was still burrowed beneath a mountain of misshapen quilts that George had fetched from the linen closet. Briar moaned out in agony; her abnormal white complexion was flush with colour, and sweat glistened visibly against her brow. The bedroom they shared had been thrown into chaos –every door in the nearest vicinity had been blown open with her unconscious bursts of magic. And Briar's favourite cabinet, the one made of mahogany, had toppled onto its side. To add fuel to the growing misery, the framed mirror with its damaged corner had been shattered, spraying glass across the entirety of the bedroom.

"You're joking," George announced from the doorway, appearing not long after he heard the shatter of glass. With an absent wave of his wand the mirror repaired itself, and the cabinet stood properly once more. George leant against its wooden frame, sweeping a hand through his ginger hair and absently across the place where his ear once resided, "You'll survive a severed limb, a hole in your abdomen, and a bloody war –but this," he made a sweeping gesture, disbelief plaguing his handsome features, "This is what stops the ruthless Briar York."  
Briar peered up at him with foggy, blue eyes. "I could still kick your ass," she muttered, her voice muffled beneath the swaths of fabric. George's hazel eyes twinkled with amusement, "I'm sure you could, love. –D'you want something to eat? Mum used to make us soup whenever we got sick."  
Briar's clouded eyes seemed to focus, just for a second. "Pudding," she announced. George's brow furrowed, when he opened mouth to question her, she cut in. "Rurik would make me pudding whenever I was sick. Butterscotch, usually."  
Shrugging, George pushed away from the doorway. "Right, I'll get on that."

* * *

 _Briar could scarcely remember the first time she had been truly, genuinely sick. She must have been six or seven at least –certainly there had been a handful of bad cases of the flu, and whatnot –but this had been the first time where she had been deathly ill.  
Her father, Rurik York was a young, single father. A good father, if not emotionally withdrawn since the passing of his late wife. Parenting was hardly something he would sweat. And yet when it came to sick children –sick __**magical**_ _children at that, Rurik was at a loss._

 _With each shuttering cough, Briar's bedframe trembled. She lay swaddled within a dozen quilts like a newborn, and yet Briar couldn't help but shiver as if ice water had been dumped over her tiny frame. Rurik peered worriedly over his child, his youthful face was crumpled with more emotion than Briar had ever seen. –Not that she could consider his expression beyond her fever-induced mind. While a clever man, Rurik had never dealt with an illness tainted by magic before, simply because he had been a rather healthy muggle-born himself. Of course, at the first sign of a glass-shattering cough Rurik had called in a healer.  
"Just a simple influenza," the healer had remarked simply, removing her blistered hand from Briar's forehead. "The fever is at a normal temperature for her size, it'll break soon enough."  
And yet Rurik was at a loss –afraid to even comfort Briar lest it somehow encourage her sickness._

 _"_ _Dad," Briar's voice was soft against the pattering of rain against the shingles. Rurik hurried from the other room, cursing under his breath when he saw her propped up against her pillows. While she was a fair child, she seemed almost too white in contrast to her pillowcases.  
"Dad," she called again. Her head lulled to one side, and she peered up at him from beneath her white lashes. "'M'hungry, dad."  
Rurik's head jerked away painfully, just as a gust of wind pounded past him in response to another rattling cough. His head spun, and his scarred hands worked their way uneasily through his knotted hair. 'What did sick kids eat anyway?' he thought to himself. He needed help. That much was certain._

* * *

There was a hand brushing through her hair when she roused. Briar peered blearily upwards, far too tired to protest George's affections. Their bedroom was out of sorts once more, although George appeared none too concerned. Briar wondered idly if he had taken care of his many siblings when they had been just as ill. Or perhaps Molly had.  
Briar reached an small hand upwards, brushing her fingers through the still-short hairs around his remaining ear. He flinched subtly at the heat of her flesh, but didn't protest.

"Hungry still?" he asked her, gesturing to the dish at their bedside table with a nod. Briar eyed the pudding, considering it.  
Finally, she sat up, revealing the sweater she wore. George's eyes fell to it instantly. While it had faded over the years, the gold "G" emblazoned on its front stood out in stark contrast to the red material. Given to her during her final year at Hogwarts, Briar had kept it tucked safely away until now. Obviously pleased, George pressed a kiss to her sweat-laden temple.  
She ignored him, content with spooning the pudding into her mouth.

It wasn't long after she finished her pudding that she was lulled back to sleep. Rain had just begun to patter noisily against the rooftop as she drifted off, George's fingers still combing through her messy locks.

* * *

 _A woman with raven coloured hair stood over her. Her eyes, like her hair, were dark –although they were much softer than Briar would anticipate. She was a handsome woman. And when she stooped to press a damp cloth against her brow, the woman's hair cascaded down her shoulder in gentle waves, smelling strongly of rich, foreign spices.  
The woman drew up once more, turning to face her father who slouched against the doorway._

 _"_ _She looks nothing like you," the woman's voice was a gentle murmur. Akin to fondness, Rurik eyed her, "She takes after her Celeste. Although she's much quieter."  
The woman nodded, turning back to Briar. With manicured fingers, she brushed her way through Briar's mess of tangles. "It must hurt, sometimes," the woman noted aloud. "Her being a carbon copy of your wife."  
"Sometimes," Rurik admitted, flinching slightly as Briar moaned out, turning her face into the mattress. The pair watched cautiously as the bedframe gave a simple lurch before stilling.  
"This is insane," the woman shook her head, her brows knotting. "I mean, I don't see you for years, and then suddenly your head's in the fireplace and you're asking for help." Rurik had the decency to look embarrassed, "You know how mother was," he grumbled, "and Briar needed help, what was I supposed to do?"  
"I'm not scolding you, Rurik," the woman shot back, her dark brows arching. She turned back to Briar, retrieving the cloth from her brow and tsking at the burnt fabric. She retrieved another cloth from the basin at her feet, layering it over Briar's forehead, ignoring the steam that rose in response. "Besides," the woman continued softly, "what is family for?"  
Rurik lowered his gaze politely, "Thank you, Ina."_


End file.
